


grist for the mill

by voksen



Series: breadsports [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bread Sex, Consent Issues, Crack, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert stays for breakfast, but it's not quite what he expects.</p><p>By which I mean it's breadkink. Again. Breadplay? I don't even know anymore. Soggy baguette. Breadsports. Yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grist for the mill

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: _valjean fucks a baguette and just leaves it there when hes done and javert eats it later without knowing it contains valjeans spunk_  
>  _im so sorry_
> 
> Me too, anon. Me too.

The law might never tire, but it was an unfortunate fact that Javert did, and so it was that he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open and to keep from yawning in M. Madeleine's face. The sun was well up; what had began as a simple (if early by the clock) report on a break-in suspiciously near one of M. le Maire's warehouses had turned quite naturally to a discussion of leads and suspects, and then to the criminal element of the town as a whole, and _then_ , finally - Javert was not quite sure how - twisted out of his control and into a philosophical discussion of the nature of crime, punishment, and justice itself.

Javert had risen at dawn the day before; even if his work had not been particularly wearying he would have been tired, but as it was it was nearly intolerable. Madeleine, despite his age, looked as fresh as if he had slept for a week, though Javert knew well that he often worked late into the night and had already been awake when Javert had come to report. It must go hand in hand with being a fool, he thought, with the tiny thrill and guilty clench of insubordination that always accompanied such unacceptable yet unavoidable thoughts about M. le Maire and his strange charities.

"You look tired," Madeleine said, interrupting Javert's mind from its wooly contemplation of the cold, narrow bed that waited for him at home.

Javert bit the inside of his cheek, hoping that the pain would wake him some. It did not. "I am well," he said. "Is there anything else you need, monsieur?"

Madeleine watched him for a moment, assessingly - it was a look Javert had often turned on _him_ , and being subjected to it himself was discomfiting - and then said: "Will you stay to breakfast with me, Inspector?"

He should not; there were several excellent reasons which only began with with not imposing on his hospitality any more than he already had, but Javert, in addition to being tired, was also hungry, and alongside the cold bed there awaited only a few scraps of bread and the end of a packet of weak tea. He hesitated an instant longer than he ought. "I--" he began, but it was too late.

"Excellent," Madeleine said, and smiled. "We'll have to make do for ourselves this morning; I hope you don't mind."

Javert trailed after him into the kitchen. The stove was warm and blazing already; if Madeleine's housekeeper was not about, then the man himself must have been up earlier than Javert had thought. The whole night, maybe, which made his wakefulness even more... exhausting. 

It was not a particularly large kitchen, but then the house itself was quite modest; there was a small table against one wall, a pantry, a long counter, the stove itself. Madeleine put the kettle on and began gathering the tea things; Javert blinked back his exhaustion again, resigned himself to the situation, and cast about wearily for something to do.

On the sideboard there was a loaf of bread with a bread knife already lying out beside it; only the end of the loaf was missing, and Javert judged that he must have interrupted a midnight snack by his arrival with the news of the robbery. While Madeleine busied himself on the other side of the kitchen, Javert crossed over and began to slice.

The bread was cold, of course, but it seemed well baked, despite the large holes throughout, an open crumb more like a boule than a proper baguette. The crust was perfectly golden and the inside bleached pale; altogether of a rather higher quality than Javert's usual salary stretched to include. Most likely it was some odd new fashion in baking. He stacked the slices on a plate and turned.

Madeleine was watching him with quite the strangest expression Javert had ever seen on him, a small pitcher and bowl of sugar lumps held loosely in his large hands.

"Monsieur?" Javert said.

Madeleine startled abruptly like a man jostled awake out of a deep dream, nearly spilling the cream he carried altogether; a few pale drops splashed over the edge of the pewter and down along the outside. "Ah," he said, "forgive me." He glanced away from Javert and back again, as if to compose himself from some great shock, then smiled once more, the polite host. It did not quite reach his eyes, however, and Javert felt a wary unease growing in the pit of his belly.

"Have I done something wrong?" Javert asked.

Madeleine turned away, putting sugar and cream on the table with the teacups, and went to tend to the kettle as it began to whistle. "No," he said. "No, not at all. There's butter over there - if you wouldn't mind -"

He found and retrieved the butter; by the time he had brought it and the plate of bread to the table, Madeleine had the tea ready and had set out a small pot of preserves and two smaller plates, one before each chair.

Javert sat; Madeleine brushed off the awkward beginnings of his offer and poured the tea out himself, then set the pot down, added cream and sugar briskly to his own cup, and nudged pitcher and bowl towards Javert before taking the heel of the loaf from the plate and beginning to butter it.

Cream and sugar did not often make an appearance in Javert's tea, but he added them regardless; they were there, they had been pointedly offered, it would not be rude to accept. He sipped at the cup until Madeleine had done with the butter and jam.

He chose a slice of bread - one of the middles that most showed the open crumb, as it seemed that Madeleine evidently preferred the heel - and buttered it stintingly. He would have foregone the preserves altogether had not Madeleine asked him to please try it and say honestly what he thought of it.

Javert was not entirely sure why anyone would care for his opinion on the quality of jam, but nevertheless he spread it on and took a bite. It was strawberry; there was a bit of an unusual taste to it, though he could not tell whether it was in the jam itself, the butter, or the bread.

In any case apparently Madeleine _did_ care for his opinion, whatever strange reason he had, for he was watching Javert's face quite intently as he chewed and looking entirely too fascinated for it to have been simple politeness.

"It's good," Javert offered. Madeleine did not look away, nor did his look of interest slacken. Javert racked his tired brain, trying to think of something else to say about it, and came up with nothing.

"I'm glad to hear it," Madeleine said, when Javert did not elaborate. His voice was a bit rough; he cleared his throat apologetically and drank a mouthful of tea, added more cream, drank again. "Please, have as much as you like."


End file.
